


Walking at Night

by Eryn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: A&E, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eryn/pseuds/Eryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story where Q would like to do as he pleased and Bond has no understanding of personal boundaries leading to a spectacular fight and the most awkward shower in the history of everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking at Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rerumfragmenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rerumfragmenta/gifts).



> Written for rerumfragmenta, because she bought me at the AO3auction. Love you, dear
> 
> her prompt was: Q still holds resentment and hatred for himself because of the whole Skyfall Shit (as he calls it), so he starts seeking fights late at night and then blames the few bruises on lab work.  
> Bond finds out because Q has to call him from ER because he can't walk home for a cut under his foot.
> 
> Many thanks go to Vicky, who took the time to beta this ♥

Three months had passed since his promotion to Quartermaster, but still Q's mind was caught in that moment. Outwardly, he'd moved on. He'd accepted his new name. His new rank. He'd cut the last ties to his family - they were mourning one of the faceless dead in the explosion that had shaken central London. He'd vacated his flat and moved to a safe location.

But inside, he was still stuck, seeing the red screens glaring at him, seeing Skyfall burn to the ground, seeing M laying dead in her coffin. And no matter what he did or didn't do, the thought wouldn't leave him. That bloody thought. The thought that always began with the same two words: “what if”.

What if he'd been faster? What if he hadn't allowed MI6 to be hacked? What if he'd helped Bond more efficiently? What if!

With gritted teeth Q smacked his right palm onto the smooth cool surface of the worktable. He held back a wince as pain raced up his arm, right through the bruised elbow, and to his brain. It effectively cut off the train of thoughts and brought him back to the present, reminding him that yes, he'd cut his right palm last night. And his elbow was still bruised from the week before. Closing his eyes, he took a few calming breaths to relocate his centre. He needed to finish the prototype for the new briefcases in the next two hours so he could pass it on to someone else for further analysis. After that, he had a meeting to outfit 009 and then a mountain of paperwork begging for attention back in his office.

Absently, he massaged his shoulder with his left hand while the right kept typing away, alternating between keyboard and tablet pen to perfect the 3D-visualisation of what he was planning. It would be a nice surprise for the Double O's - or really any field agent. Not quite an exploding pen, but still nice. Maybe the case would even make Bond dislike him a little less. Sure, 007 gave no sign of his resentment, but Q didn't let the agent fool him. They were trained liars, after all. What was one warm smile for a man you saw once every month? Sometimes he wondered if he wasn’t being ridiculous, hung up over an agent’s approval. But said agent was prone to wandering the Q branch, as if he wanted to make sure Q didn’t screw up his next job as well. Just like he’d done the last time he got ahead of himself. 

He dug his fingers firmly into his shoulder again, using the pain to bring his thoughts back on track. If he wanted to bring a real smile to cool lips, then he needed to actually finish this thing in time for Bond's next mission.

#

Missions were good. Missions were reliable. And Bond threw himself into his work with his usual vigour. Most people at headquarters were giving him worried looks, afraid that he was trying to get himself killed. But really all he wanted was to get away from their pity and kid-glove treatment. Yes, it had hurt. Yes, he had grieved for her. And for the old Q. And for the innocent at the end of a long list of others who'd died because some madman wanted revenge. But he wasn't a child to be coddled. And they weren't his first losses to mourn.

Dispassionately, he watched life pass in front of his office. Agents and officers alike went about their day’s work, doing their best to appear nonchalant whenever they stuck their heads into his office to enquire about his day or to request his presence at lunch. He turned them all away with his usual charm. Bond sometimes wondered if it was just easier for them to support him than to deal with their own problems. 

Still, it meant Bond spent his days in his office from 9 to 5, going over mission reports, intelligence reports, and gossip rags - everything he needed to be prepared to leave for the other end of the world on short notice and still maintain his cover identity. He even avoided the other Double O's, who had succumbed to the delusion that he needed comfort as well.

The only person who didn’t coddle him was the new Q, and so Bond often found himself sneaking around the Q branch, instilling fear and weariness in the techs whilst keeping an eye on their leader. Q barely gave him any attention, but Bond still kept watch over the man who had already saved his life on multiple occasions.

#

For Q, getting off work no longer meant going home immediately. Or rather, it didn't mean staying home. He would, of course, head home first - mostly to reassure the agent sent to trail him, but also to get rid of his briefcase. However, he didn't stay there. His schedule was erratic enough that the agents rotating in and out of his security detail were just happy to finally be done waiting for him to go home. Today was no different, so after he stepped into his flat - a nice quiet one in an MI6 safe house - at 10 p.m. he only had to wait 15 minutes before his computer announced that the GPS of the agent’s car had passed from his immediate vicinity. Q dutifully spent another five minutes packing his bag for the next day. Then, he finally went to change so he could leave the flat again.

When he stepped back out onto the sidewalk Q no longer looked like his office self. Instead, he was dressed in sturdy jeans and boots with a black t-shirt underneath a leather jacket. His hair was tousled and the whatever-o'clock shadow on his face added another year to the two the change in clothes already gave him. He only took his keys and a bit of change with him - no need to risk losing anything vital. Q hummed to himself as he stepped outside into the crisp night air, hands stuffed into jacket pockets.

It took him almost an hour on foot to reach his destination, but Q was used to it by now. He had been coming here and to a number of similar places regularly for weeks now. Places where there was always someone else spoiling for a fight. Places where the police were in no hurry to come and break up fights . He was already known in these places. People looked at him differently, in contrast to when he first showed up. Their eyes held respect now. Grudging maybe, but respect all the same, because even though some of these men were twice his size, Q always put up a good fight.

He quickly spotted some of his acquaintances - people just like him - but he passed them by in favour of someone new. Bond had been down in the lab today again, staring at him with a distant expression on his face. The agent thought Q didn't know, but it was easy enough to notice the disturbance in his lair, the ripples that spread through his minions whenever Bond was around. So while Bond watched him, Q watched Bond and the emotionless mask on his face whenever he thought no one was looking. It was a painful reminder of what had been destroyed during the Skyfall incident. What he had destroyed with his carelessness.

Q finally caught sight of a worthy target, and as their gazes locked, Q could see that the sentiment was shared. The guy was probably in the mood to beat up someone weaker, someone smaller, someone who wouldn't put up much of a fight. But Q wouldn't give him that. Grinning broadly, he pulled his hands from his pockets, zipping them shut casually. The other was still standing in place, waiting for Q to come and attack. Q was more than happy to do so, cracking already bruised knuckles as he walked up and prepared to throw the first punch.

#

The call came in the middle of the night. Not that it mattered. Bond was out and about as was his habit. His cell phone made it possible for MI6 to reach him wherever he went - but this wasn't MI6. Neither did it have the usual office extension nor did it come from a familiar cell phone number. Instead, it came from a public telephone. The area-code placed it somewhere inside London, but that was all he could determine. For a moment he wondered if he should pick up. After all, he had no idea who was on the other end. But curiosity won out, supported by the knowledge that this phone number was only known to a trusted few operatives. So either this was a hostage situation and it would be good to gather any intel he could, or an agent had lost his phone and was dialing from memory.

"Bond," he answered even as he stepped out onto the balcony, leaving the loud casino behind.

"007? I hope I’m not bothering you," came the familiar voice of his Quartermaster from the other end. He sounded exhausted, but calm. Nothing life-threatening then. Though Bond could also hear the sound of sirens in the background. Sirens and people speaking loudly and Q was asking if he was bothering James. Really, hadn't the boy learnt anything since he'd been promoted? 

"Of course you aren't. What do you need?" Bond asked. It was a weird kind of role reversal, but Bond didn't care. He was by now fairly sure that Q was at a hospital, and not even MI6 medical: a civilian hospital. He could practically hear Q fidgeting on the other end. Was his Quartermaster embarrassed? What had he done that would force him to call Bond from a public phone instead of simply going to MI6 medical? Bond's mind supplied a plethora of possibilities, and he couldn't help but grin. No matter how worried the Quartermaster sounded, the ideas were quite amusing, and it wasn't like Q could see him.

"I need a lift. I'm currently at the Royal London Hospital and I need to get home," Q admitted, and Bond stared at his phone incredulously. For a moment he felt the urge to snap at him to simply get a taxi, but he refrained. No matter how enjoyable it would be to go back inside and bet another thousand pounds, it would be much more rewarding to get a closer look at his Quartermaster. After all, this was the perfect opportunity to get to know Q in an off-work setting. And if Q really needed help getting home - what the hell had he done to himself to warrant a trip to the hospital anyways? He didn't sound drunk - but maybe Bond would even get a chance to look at the inside of his flat.

#

When the ambulance had arrived at the park, Q had been grateful that he left his ID at home. He gave the paramedics his medical emergency cover name and let them take him to the hospital. The ID was perfectly bland and no one questioned him when he said he'd call someone to take him home. His only possibly unusual act was that he flat out refused to talk to the police. The other guy had already left and Q insisted that he simply stumbled, no matter that his arms were a little too bruised for that. He’d told the nurses in A&E with a banal smile that he just worked a “high-risk” job and they'd finally let it drop.

The only problem was, now he needed to actually call someone. Someone with the security clearance to take him home. Someone who wouldn't report the incident. Someone who wouldn't ask awkward questions. His ankle was throbbing steadily and he mentally cursed himself for not bringing enough money for a taxi, as the hospital was too far for him to walk home with a sprained ankle. 

Unfortunately, the only person who came to mind was Bond. Not because he was the only one who fit the requirements. Rather, he was the only Double O currently in London, and only Double O's would be free to not report the incident. Of course, he had no guarantee that Bond wouldn't report him, but Q would find some kind of incentive.

Luckily he had the necessary phone number memorised so when he limped to one of the public phones and fed some coins to the machine it looked like he was actually calling a family member, or at least a close friend. The background noise Q heard when Bond picked up all but screamed entertainment. For a moment, Q felt bad for drawing Bond away from his evening - or rather nighttime - endeavour, but there was no one else to call. To prevent Bond from worrying, as well as conveying that this was nothing big, Q kept his voice calm and firm. Sure, he needed to be picked up from the hospital, but he wasn't seriously hurt. Just annoyingly unable to walk.

Surprisingly, Bond didn't make a fuss, so Q hobbled back over to one of the benches in the waiting room. Bond had said it would take him at least half an hour to get here, so Q picked up one of the magazines laying around. Time passed slowly, and Q was half asleep from exhaustion and pain-killers when Bond finally stepped into the waiting room and immediately honed in on him. And despite Q's best efforts to calm him, he looked worried. Just great.

#

On the drive to the hospital James had thought a bit about what to expect. After all, something spectacular had to have happened for Q to end up at a public hospital instead of MI6. And no matter how amusing his initial few guesses had been, he’d had enough time to cook up more dire scenarios. The only thing that kept him driving calmly was the knowledge that Q had been able to make the call himself. He couldn't be too badly hurt if he was able to operate a phone on his own.

When he stepped into the waiting room, it took him a moment to spot Q, who looked completely unfamiliar in his current outfit. No slacks or cardigans. No clean shaved face and carefully tousled hair. Instead, there was scruff and dirt smears and an uncomfortable number of red scratches and bruises on his hands and face. Bond had noticed similar wounds on the Quartermaster's hands and arms - scrapes and bruises mostly - but the man worked with dangerous equipment daily, so he hadn't paid it much thought. But now, with the wounds still fresh and Q dressed more like a street thug than an engineer, it was easy to see that they were wounds that typically came from fistfights. God only knew that Bond possessed enough experience to recognise the scraped knuckles and bruised arms for what they were. What had Q been doing with himself?

"What happened to you?" Bond asked roughly, all but pulling the magazine from Q's grip so he could get a good look at his hands. Q's whole body had gone tense and the fingers in his grip were flexing purposefully, as if Q was getting ready to break the grip but hadn't decided how to do it yet.

"I took a walk and sprained my ankle. Unfortunately I didn't have enough money for a taxi, so if you could take me home that'd be wonderful," Q said curtly, and Bond had the distinct urge to shake him. This was more than just a sprained ankle, though a look at the bandaged foot told him that at least that part wasn't a lie.

"And how did you sprain your ankle?" he asked. He did his best to keep his voice level and not show anger at whatever his Quartermaster was doing tonight. If he wanted to get to the truth, he couldn't antagonise the younger man too much. Carefully he slipped his hands from Q's wrist to his elbows, noting the minimal flinches when he brushed over likely bruised skin.

"Stumbled," Q replied shortly. Bond was impressed by his ability to keep his pain response minimal even when Bond took a firm grip of his arms to help him to his feet. He stepped back from the bench and pulled Q with him, turning the Quartermaster in his hold so he could wrap one arm around the younger man's waist while the other kept hold of his arm. The explanation wasn't exactly satisfactory, but perhaps Q needed just a bit of privacy.

#

The walk to Bond's car was blessedly short, and Bond didn't even try to make conversation. He just held onto Q and made sure he didn't stumble. Still, Q sighed in relief when he could sink into the comfortable seat. His only regret was that he was no longer cradled against Bond. The man was strong and warm and Q had quite enjoyed leaning onto him. It was a rather disturbing thought - not because Bond was a man but because those feelings wouldn't be returned. Carefully, he sorted his injured foot into the car and then closed the door. Bond was already walking around to get into the driver seat, so Q made sure he was all buckled up.

Bond was silent as he steered the car into traffic and Q just hoped that he would stay that way, as he didn't want to lie to the agent. Unfortunately, Q was sure that the other wouldn't understand his form of evening entertainment - no matter how violent he could be on the job. After all it was one thing to spar with another agent at MI6 and an entirely different thing to seek out unsavoury men in parks to have a fist-fight.

Q watched Bond drive, eyes switching from the older man's hands to his face to his legs and back, so he noticed Bond glance at him too, and their eyes locked for a moment before Bond gave him a once over and focused back on the road.

"Where do you live?" he asked and Q almost wanted to sigh in relief. Sure, he wanted to reply with don't you know that already? But at least Bond hadn't asked after the injury, so Q decided to just give his address, as snark would only open the field for unnecessary questions. Unfortunately, the silence didn't last. Just when Q had started to get comfortable again, Bond spoke up. Based on his knowledge of MI6 guidelines, Q was fairly sure it was a standard interrogation tactic, which, while disturbing when used on him, was the result of his not-forthcoming information.

"So, where exactly do you take walks that give you scratches like that?"

Q mentally cursed himself for not putting on his jacket before Bond arrived, but outwardly he just shrugged. His wounds were all superficial and non-specific.

"There’s a park I like to go to. I stumbled and landed in some bushes," he explained casually. This got him closely scrutinised at the next stop and Q wondered if Bond thought he was drunk. Went for a walk in the middle of the night, stumbled and landed in the bushes. Unfortunately he was painfully sober and Bond knew, as they'd been close enough walking to the car that the agent would have smelled it otherwise.

"The nearest park is almost an hour's walk from your flat," Bond returned and Q wondered if the man had a map of London memorised or if he simply knew the neighbourhood around Q's flat. But Q didn't let that put him off of his lie.

"I never said I was on a short walk."

"Then when do you sleep? You work all day and then wander around for hours at night," Bond chastised. Q could hear the 'no wonder you fall over and sprain your ankle' somewhere in that sentence, but he studiously ignored it. The agent had no proof that Q hadn’t just fallen over and Q did not intend to give him further ammunition. 

"I don't take walks every night. And I don't sleep much anyways," he returned coolly, hoping to cover the childish petulance underneath it.

#

Arriving at the flat, Bond was grateful for the empty parking spot right in front of the door. Not that it hadn't been nice to feel the young engineer leaning on him - it had simply been a little too nice, since Q seemed completely unreceptive to any advances made at MI6. He wasn't even interested in the female agents throwing themselves at him. Still, it might be a good idea to help Q up the stairs, even if he was turned away at the door. But, when Q started to climb out of the car, Bond spotted the pile of sand left in the seat and decided that it would be prudent to help the man into a shower no matter his feelings on the issue.  
After locking up the car, Bond once again wrapped his arms around the other. Q was tense now, more tense than he'd been the first time Bond helped him. Was it because the pain was more pronounced? Or because of their discussions? Bond wasn’t sure, but he didn't let it deter him.

However, Q relaxed more with every step they took, obviously grateful for the support Bond offered - maybe it really had been the pain. Bond stayed silent while the younger unlocked the entrance and made sure to stay close all the way to the door of Q’s flat. He was grateful that Q hadn’t sent him away downstairs, but now the younger man was hesitating. James hoped he wouldn’t have to argue his way inside, but before he could start talking Q pulled the key out of his pocket. Q didn't even try to fight when James guided him through the door and placed him on a kitchen chair.

"Thank you, 007," Q said, and James wasn't sure if he should be hurt that the other still referred to him by his code name, putting palpable distance between them. Bond could, however, understand this need for distance and emotional shielding from whatever Bond could deduce about him, especially once he looked around and realised just how lived in this flat already felt, even though Q had only been living here for a few months. Electronics, magazines and personal effects were scattered all over the flat, a myriad of hints about Q’s self, just waiting to be put together. When he walked to the front door to lock it properly, James felt more like an intruder than a helpful co-worker and he was sure Q felt the same. The younger man knew he was trained to be perceptive, to put the smallest hints together to get the bigger picture, and it wasn’t like he could just turn off his training and not see. So maybe, James thought as he walked back, Q was right to be wary, but Bond had a job to do, and he wouldn't let the Quartermaster stop him.

#

Q watched silently as Bond left the kitchen and headed further into the flat. His ankle was throbbing uncomfortably and for a moment he wished he had accepted stronger painkillers. The ones in the flat likely wouldn't be up to the task, and putting ice on the ankle would only work while he stayed at home and he had no intention of boring himself to death by not going in tomorrow.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Bond came back into the kitchen with a determined expression on his face. Q held back the urge to show nervousness in any way. Even without his injured foot, he was no match for Bond, but this was his home and he'd be well within his rights to refuse whatever Bond wanted to do now. However, what came out of Bond's mouth next was actually quite reasonable.

"You need a shower, Q," Bond said and Q had to agree, so he put his hands on the table and pushed himself to his feet. 

"Yes. Thank you for driving me home, 007. You can return to your own entertainment again," Q said, using his best Quartermaster in charge voice. Carefully he stretched his arm out and leaned against the wall for support as he took the first step.

"Thank you. But I'd rather stay and make sure you don't fall and break your neck inside your own home," Bond said with a hint of humour in his voice. Q wanted to curse him but the strong arm wrapping around his waist killed that urge swiftly. It was just too damn convenient to have someone like Bond to lean on. Q was sure the agent could simply carry him to the bath as well, but he wasn't interested in testing that theory. He wasn’t dumb enough to refuse Bond’s help when it would take him twice as long to get to the bathroom on his own. Indeed, his ankle was already protesting the small amount of pressure he'd put on it before Bond came to help him.

He drew a firm line however when Bond helped him to sit down on the closed toilet and then started undressing him. Scowling he slapped the hands away and pulled the jacket closed again.

"I am well able to undress myself," Q growled, but he made no move. He had no intention of getting naked while Bond stared at him. It was already bad enough that Bond had gotten a good look at his arms.

"And how do you suggest you take off your shoes? Let alone get in the shower?" Bond asked, obviously not interested in giving in. "And for that matter how do you intend to not fall over when you can barely stand on your own?"

His logic was sound, Q had to admit, but that didn't mean he intended to let Bond see his naked body. Less out of self-consciousness but because for every superficial bruise on his hands there were about five hidden beneath his clothes. And that was a discussion he was not willing to have with the agent.

"I will manage. And in case you didn’t notice, I do own a bathtub. I am well able to get in and wash myself without your aid, 007."

#

James watched Q’s defensive hold on his clothes and he couldn't help but wonder what the man was trying to hide. There was no way Q was body-shy. He might not be the most handsome guy in the department, but James had seen the work Q did, all requiring agility and strength. So unless he had some big disfiguring secret, there should be no reason for Q to turn down help.

"I don't doubt your ability to wash yourself, Q. But if you slip on a wet tile and crack your head open, Mallory will personally execute me. Just let me help you get in and out of the bath. It'll be faster than doing it on your own and I'm sure you'd like to get into bed before the sun comes up," James reasoned, and in front of him he could see Q's resolve crumbling.

"Turn around," the younger man instructed. Bond looked at him in confusion.

"What?" he asked. He had no intention of turning his back when he should make sure Q didn't recklessly kill himself.

"Turn around. I won't undress if you keep staring at me. And since I'm sure you'd like to get into bed before the sun comes up you had better do it now," Q griped. Bond was tempted to force the issue. It was stupid and dangerous. But he just sighed and turned around, moving to the side until he could see Q in the bathroom mirror. By the answering sigh he heard from behind him, Q had noticed as well but wasn't interested in arguing.

Silently, James watched Q shift around as he peeled off his clothes. Whenever his face contorted in pain, James had to grit his teeth to keep himself from commenting or interfering, since Q didn’t seem to be wincing only due to his sprained ankle. The other reasons became obvious when Q pulled off his undershirt, baring layers upon layers of bruises. Old and new ones in shades varying from purple to dull yellow were scattered liberally over his arms, chest, and likely his back. His legs, once they came into view, didn't look much better. James knew those weren't work accidents. He'd watched Q enough to know that he wasn't that clumsy. And he'd seen enough bruises in his time to know that most of those came from fists, elbows, and the like. Grimly, James watched Q slip off his underwear before pushing himself to his feet. What the hell was his Quartermaster doing?

#

He knew Bond was watching, but Q did his best to ignore him in favour of getting undressed. It wasn't easy, but he managed to slip out of everything without dislodging the bandage on his foot. He'd need to rewrap it after the bath, but that was an issue to be dealt with later. For now he concentrated on pushing himself to his feet. It was only two steps to get from the toilet to the bathtub and he'd be damned if he needed Bond's help for that.

Unfortunately the agent seemed disinclined to indulge him so before he could even rise completely Bond was at his side again, face drawn. Biting the inside of his lip, Q ignored the warmth of the hand splayed on his naked stomach and the strength in the arm laying around his back. No matter how nice it was. No matter how much he liked being manhandled in bed. This wasn't the time or the place to get a boner, as the man at his side was almost a complete stranger and seemed to be brimming with fury. They were co-workers. They didn't even get along. There was no reason to be attracted to the man past his good looks.

Focusing on the pain and the cold of the tiles, Q let himself be guided to the bathtub. He carefully climbed inside and turned on the tap.

"Please wait outside, Bond. I'd like to have at least some privacy here," he said curtly.

"Call when you're done," the agent replied, and Q was almost surprised by the easy acceptance. Nonetheless, Q was happy to watch him go. Maybe Bond would even fetch him an icepack from the fridge while he waited, though Q figured that was more wishful thinking. Yawning, he adjusted the water temperature and picked up the soap.

Taking a bath was awkward, and every move he made seemed to jar his ankle. But at least he had privacy.

Once the water ran clean Q turned off the tap and reached out for a towel. It was a bit of a stretch, but he managed to sit up with his feet still inside the tub and wrap the fluffy towel around his chest.

"I'm done," he called, and it wasn't really surprising to see the door open immediately. When Bond spotted him his face once again turned into a scowl. But Q didn't feel chastised in the least. He hadn't put any unnecessary strain onto his leg and he hadn't slipped. But he still let Bond lift him from the tub and didn't fight it when the agent decided to take another towel to dry him off. The only thing he balked at was when Bond wanted to take the towel still wrapped around his chest. Luckily he didn't have to argue. The agent just shrugged and wrapped himself around Q again.

Slowly they walked into his bedroom, and Q was happy to see that Bond had already turned down the covers and not only found ice-packs but also painkillers and fresh bandages for him. He let himself be placed on the bed, and he slipped on an oversized t-shirt before pulling out the towel underneath. The towel simply went over the edge of the bed, and he settled under Bond's watchful gaze.

#

The way Q did his best to hide his body made James fume. He should have no reason to hide his body. He also shouldn't have to lie about where the bruises came from. Silently, he watched Q arrange himself on the bed. Once Q was comfortable, Bond sat down at his feet and put the injured one in his lap. Without a word he began unwrapping the soggy bandages. It was infuriating that Q didn't do more than wince occasionally, emphasising how accustomed he was to pain.

"You know, if you need someone to beat you up, you could just visit the MI6 gym," he commented. That got him a proper flinch and James almost felt good about it when he dropped the bandages onto the towel.

"Nobody would spar with a branch head," Q returned evenly, apparently no longer willing or interested in upholding his lie. James wasn't sure if he should be happy about this or worried by the underlying information.

"That's not true. The Double O's would. But why do you feel the need at all?" James asked. He did his best to keep his voice even and his hands steady but it wasn't easy. What was riding Q?

"That is entirely my business, 007. I am very grateful for your help but I have no intention to share my personal feelings with you," Q returned. It was obvious he didn't want to have this conversation, but James didn't let himself be pushed away. He just focused on the bandages in his hands and the ankle in his lap. It would do no good to make eye-contact now.

"Is it because you need the pain? Do you want to hurt for days? Because that can be arranged much more safely than meeting strangers in parks. Or do you need to feel somebody overpower you? Because that'd be even easier. Or is it something else entirely? What do you get from this, Q?" Bond urged. He would get to the bottom of this tonight and then he'd make sure this situation didn't come about again.

#

Q held onto the blankets tightly. His eyes were trained on his foot where Bond's sure hands were wrapping his ankle tightly. He wanted to kick the man. Kick him and then throw him out and not deal with this, but he couldn't, as all it would take was one misplaced comment and Bond could bring the full wrath of MI6 medical down on him. Also, Bond was stuck in London for at least two more weeks, so if Q pushed him off now, the man would just be back tomorrow. And the day after. Gritting his teeth, he held back a shout of pain when Bond pulled the bandages tight. Q was sure that his reason would seem entirely ridiculous when spoken out loud. Bond would probably come up with some kind of perceived improvement, and Q would have to find a way to push him off.

But he could only sit and quietly listen to Bond make up even more ridiculous reasons for so long, and Q knew that the only way to effectively shut Bond up would be the truth. That didn't stop him from giving Bond's thigh a good kick with his uninjured foot first though.

"I do it because I want to, 007. I dislike sitting at home at night pondering everything I should have done three months ago. I hate waking at 3 a.m. after yet another nightmare simply because I stupidly went to bed before midnight. I enjoy going for a walk at night. I like the exercise. I give as good as I get and it is my right to spend my free time as I please," he argued. Q felt tempted to kick Bond again, but the man still had his hands on Q's injured ankle, so he didn't risk it. At least his words seemed to have had the desired effect of shutting Bond up. Q took a chance and let his eyes move up to Bond's face. The agent's expression was drawn and Q feared for what would come out of the man's mouth next. But Bond didn't seem inclined to speak again. His mind was obviously mulling Q's words over, trying to find a good reason against it.

They sat in silence for a while, Bond methodically bandaging him while Q did his best to ignore what he'd just said.

"You know it wasn't your fault, right?" Bond finally asked, and Q could feel himself freezing up inside.

"What are you talking about, 007?" Q asked in return. One question and he was already done with the conversation. He didn't like where this was going. 

"The unfortunate circumstances with Silva. You have absolutely no reason to second-guess yourself concerning these events or anything that came before and after them. You did what you had to. MI6 is still standing. No need to beat yourself up over it," Bond said, but his eyes were still fixed on Q's ankle.

"That isn't for you to decide. It would be stupid not to second-guess myself when the life of every agent out in the field depends on my department to provide equipment. If I stopped second-guessing my work there would be no more advancement and it would put agents in unnecessary danger," Q argued. He had to wince when Bond's hand tightened on his leg, but the agent let go quickly enough.

"I didn't say you should stop improving your work. But there's a difference between searching for faults in past missions in order to improve the equipment and searching for the things you personally did wrong that lead to an agent's untimely demise," Bond reasoned and Q wished it was that easy. Maybe it was for Bond. The man had been in the field for years and he was likely a master at compartmentalising, but Q wasn't. Death was never supposed to come to any of his agents, or his coworkers, or his superiors. Q should be able to keep his people safe.

He didn't say anything while Bond used the last of the bandage to tie the ice-pack to his ankle. The cold was a pleasant respite. Even though he was done with his task, Bond made no move to rise. He just rubbed his hands over Q's leg and foot, and Q didn't know what to do or say. Exhaustion was creeping in again, aided by the feeling of soft covers beneath him and the calming touches on his leg. He just wanted to go to sleep. Correction: he wanted Bond to leave so he could go to sleep. And he had to talk for that to happen. Sighing, he pulled his foot from Bond's grip to stretch himself out carefully.

"Just drop it. We don't agree on this issue and we never will. I will need to get up again in three hours so if you could just leave it that would be great. I promise not to bother you again. Don't concern yourself with this any more," he insisted. Q couldn't quite make it an order but he was sure Bond understood the sentiment.

#

Bond heard the underlying message quite well but he choose to ignore it. He still rose to his feet and pulled the blanket up over Q, but he had no intention of dropping the subject. This needed to be addressed.

"No, Q, I won't. I won't watch you hurt yourself for something that was never your fault. The trap was laid especially for you. There's no shame in falling for a personalised trap like that. I refuse to stop concerning myself with this when I know there are more productive ways to deal with guilt and self doubt. And if that means I have to take you to the gym every day after your shift ends to work out the tension, then I'll do that. But I refuse to watch you hurt yourself while there's something I can do about it."

On the bed Q was turning away from him, curling up on his side with his back to Bond. Sighing, Bond sat down on the edge of the mattress again so he could run his hand over the man's tense side. He didn't say anything, he just sat and waited for the younger man to find his voice again. This couldn't be easy for him. Bond could on some level relate, but where he had Alec and Eve to help him keep his focus, Q seemed to be lost and lonely, unable to let go because there was no one to catch him.

"You don't have to bother with that, Bond. There's no reason. Just leave it alone," Q said. It wasn't exactly pleading, but it was close and Bond felt the urge to lie down and curl around the man in order to comfort him. He kept himself in check though and instead kept up the petting. Under his hand he could feel Q unwind, though he didn't turn towards him again.

"I'm sorry but I can't do that. If you don't want to spar with me, then I'll find you someone else. But I won't just stand back and let you hurt yourself," James said, doing his best to sound compassionate. This wasn't a position he found himself in often. But Q just seemed to bring out this side of him. The side that didn't work for personal gain. Or at least not exclusively for personal gain.

"No. Sparring with you will be fine. If it'll make you feel better," Q said with a sigh and Bond wanted to shake him. This wasn't to make him feel better. It was to make Q feel better. But at least the younger man was no longer opposed to the idea. Maybe in time Q'd realise that this was helping him as well. And until then James would simply have to make sure Q didn't sneak out at night again.

"Thank you, Q. And good night," James said, running his hand over the other's side one last time before he rose to his feet. Of course he had no intention to leave and allow Q to get into work tomorrow, but he didn't need to tell the younger man that. It would be much better to let him rest and find something that'd keep him engaged for a day in bed.

"Good night, James," Q returned and Bond couldn't help but shake his head. From 007 to James and he hadn't even had to get undressed. Still shaking his head in amusement he picked up the wet towel and left the bedroom, turning off the light as he went. He'd just drop the stuff into the laundry and then he'd head to MI6. Maybe one of the Q-branch techs on night-shift would know of an interesting project Q could work on at home.


End file.
